


Entangled

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Arrow of Carnations [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Budding Love, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Minor Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Romance, Sexual Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: Enraptured by her blossoming relationship, Josephine cannot concentrate on her work. Her mind is distracted by thoughts of him, Leliana's suspicions are raised, the Inquisitor and Cullen only have eyes for each other, and something must be done with the offending couch in her office.What is she to do?





	Entangled

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to [Unraveled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219042), but can be read separately.

Josephine Montilyet is in heaven.

She _is_ heaven. 

She moves through Skyhold's halls in a daze, a smile on her face, a flush on her cheek and a glimmer in her eye. The lightness in her step turns her walk into a dance. She goes about her daily tasks with no sense for time—handling a difficult conversation here, delegating responsibility there, negotiating between two angry hotheads—all with more grace and delicacy than usual. Her tone is so lovely, no one can argue in her presence. 

When she finally reaches her office, she sweeps into her seat, picks up her quill, dips it into her inkpot—and stops. Seated where she is, she has a full view of her office: the door at the far end, on which he thoughtfully knocked; the hearth, where the fire warmed them; the rune-lined pot of cider she offered him; and the couch… 

The couch. 

She still feels the plush cushions beneath her body. She presses two fingers to her mouth, thinking back to the night before. His mouth, hot against hers. The warmth of his touch. The allure of his magic. His scent, his taste, everything of him intertwined with everything of her. She stares at the couch, remembering how she sat upon it, legs spread, and him… Kneeling… His tongue, that magic tongue, on her— 

"Oh, sweet _Maker."_  

He has ruined her workspace forever. 

This man she's entangled herself with… he will be her downfall. She will never write another word. Not a formal declaration issued, not a message sent. No pleas for alliances, no calls for negotiations—all of it ruined by one night of passion. How could she compose herself now, sitting at her desk, staring at her couch? She will forever think back to that night, how she came undone at his touch. There. Before the hearth. 

Where she sat with delegates.   

"Oh, sweet Maker," Josephine repeats, eyes wide with horror. 

She has cursed herself. She will never again be capable of sitting there with an Orlesian noble or the Nevarran ambassador without remembering she had sex on that very same couch. Oh, why did she not think to invite him to her quarters? It would have taken them all of fifteen minutes to climb the stairs. Then she would not have to face her day constantly thinking of him and the way he made her feel— 

Something within her melts. Her hand rests on her breast. Desire coils within her. 

 _Stop that. You're distracting yourself._  

She knows that. The problem is a very devious part of her doesn't mind. She wants to enthrall herself with the memory of last night. She half wonders whether she should feign illness and return to her quarters to sort matters out on her own. Perhaps then she will be able to work. At this rate her reputation to plow through paperwork will be ruined. 

Her breath catches in her throat and she finds that she has half-risen out of her chair. 

 _You can't be serious, Josephine,_ she thinks. _Truly? This is what it has come to?_  

She straightens and pushes her chair back, curling her hands around the edge of her desk. She will never be able to concentrate in here. Not like this. Perhaps she can take her work to the library… No. She will be interrupted even more frequently there. Perhaps she can hide in Leliana's rookery. Again, no. Bird droppings will stain her papers. What will the Marquis of Val Falaise think if she sends her letter drenched in raven shit? It is the equivalent to declaring war, and that is the last thing the Inquisition needs. 

"Josephine, you fool," she chides herself under her breath. "Your recklessness will be the end of the Inquisition." 

She can hear her mother's voice. _You did not join the Inquisition to fall victim to your desires. You joined to aid a cause. To use your talents for a greater purpose. If you wish to forget who you are and become a lovesick maiden mooning over a momentary diversion, then what good are you? You may as well return home._  

Her mother was so resistant when Josephine told her she was going to aid what was then Leliana's cause. If she knew how distracted Josephine is in this moment— 

"You are being such a fool, Josie," she mutters. "It is not yet noon. No one has noticed that you are behind on your work. Absolutely no one—" 

The door burst open. Josephine jumps, hand on her heart, startled by the noise. Cullen stares at her. 

"I'm sorry, Josephine," he says. "I did not mean to—" 

She waves a hand. "I'm fine. Lost in thought." 

"Have you considered moving your office?" Cullen says. "The amount of traffic this hallway gets… I think you'd fare better in a more private space." 

Ah, yes. A private space. Where many _private_ things can happen. An image flickers across her mind's eye—her, leaning against her desk, hands smeared with ink from papers not yet dry, locked in a kiss as his hips grind against— 

"Josephine?" 

"Hm?" 

"I was saying, have you considered moving your office?" Cullen repeats. "Now that most of the renovations are complete—" 

She shoos the fantasy about the desk away. "It is best I stay where I can be found," she says. "Administrative work relies on fast responses. This office has been more than adequate since we arrived in Skyhold. I cannot think of any reason why I should remove myself from it." 

 _Perhaps remove the offending couch. And replace it with chairs? Hm. That would be quite nice for conversations with visiting delegates. Chairs are far less personal; they make a different statement. That we are to be allies—friends, not climbing into bed with one another—_

Her mind wanders. She imagines an ornate oak chair, upholstered with gold velvet, the edges trimmed in gold leaf. She places him upon it, legs spread wide, hands tied behind the chair, clad in a sleeveless silk tunic and nothing else. The golden material is draped enticingly over his crotch. 

She then realizes the chair she has imagined is the Throne of Antiva. 

 _Andraste's ashes, Josephine Cherette Montilyet!_   

Cullen clears his throat. "Josephine? Are you all right?" 

Josephine flushes and sits down. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Cullen," she says shortly, pulling her chair in and reaching for the first report of the day. She looks down and sees it is not a report, but rather the letter to the Marquis of Val Falaise she left unfinished last night. 

The one she was working on when _he—_  

Josephine hisses and shifts the letter to the upper left corner of her desk. She will return to it. 

 _Later._  

She grabs the next sheaf of parchment on her stack and quickly scans it, forcing her mind to absorb the words and their meaning. A request from the head seamstress for fabric to imported from Val Royeaux. Josephine murmurs a silent thanks to the Maker—she could deal with this in her sleep. 

"You seem… flustered," Cullen says. 

"Do I?" Josephine shoots him a look. "I can't imagine why." 

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." He chuckles. "We do all have our secrets to keep." 

Josephine raises an eyebrow. "That is what someone would say when they want to pry," she points out. 

He pales. "Oh, no! I didn't mean it like that. All I meant… Well… I was thinking of something else entirely. Nothing to you with you, of course. Something to do with me. Only me. And… well…" He coughs. "I shall leave for the war room now. I assume you will join when we're gathered?" 

Josephine smiles. "Of course." 

Cullen nods, gives her an awkward bow and passes through the office to the corridor beyond, heading to the war room. 

The door shuts. Josephine lets out a long sigh. 

She leans back in her chair, pressing the feather of her quill to her lips. She wonders about the chair she conjured in her mind. The silk draped over his body. The enticing narrow point of his hips… It's an enjoyable fantasy. 

She will save it for later. 

She checks the ledgers and scratches out a response to the head seamstress. She wonders if he has conjured any fantasies about her. What does he desire to do to her? What would he enact upon her, given the opportunity? 

 _…your request has been received While I can accommodate, I have adjusted the numbers to better fit our budget. An order will be placed for 25 yards of Dales Loden Wool, 20 yards of Everknit, 10 yards of Royale Sea Silk and 5 yards of King's Willow Weave. I trust this will suffice for our needs. We must not neglect our cock—_

Josephine's hand wavers. She stares at what she has written, eyes wide. 

She stabs the inkpot with her quill and rapidly scratches out the last line. 

The door opens. "Josephine?" 

"A moment," she says, viciously scraping lines across the parchment. The line is blotted. She can still see the outline of the word _cock._ She looks up and the Inquisitor has appeared in front of her desk, eyebrow raised.   

"What," Ashara Trevelyan says, "are you doing?" 

"Writing," Josephine replies breathlessly. "Correcting a mistake, rather. What are you doing?" 

Ashara stares at her. "We are meeting in the war room, are we not?" 

"Yes," Josephine says. She curls her hand in front of her parchment to guard her words, something she has not done since she was a young girl writing fantastical stories in her private journal. She hopes Ashara hasn't noticed. "Cullen is there already." 

Ashara blushes. "Is he?" 

"Yes." 

"Then I should… erm… speak with him," Ashara says. "I have something I need to discuss." 

"Then you should go. Before the meeting begins." 

"Yes. I should." 

Josephine nods enthusiastically as Ashara leaves her desk, her pace quickening as she races for the door. She is through it in an instant, footsteps hurrying down the corridor to the war room. 

Josephine glances down. Her hand is covered in ink. 

"Oh, dear Maker," she sighs. 

The door opens. 

 _"What?!"_ Josephine snaps. 

"I could say the very same thing of you, Josie dear," Leliana says, her keen blue eyes sweeping through the office. She pauses, taking in the scratched-out letter and the ink staining Josephine's hands. Her gaze passes over the stack of untouched reports. "Behind schedule? Tsk tsk. Most unlike you." 

"Leliana, please," Josephine says. "Not today." 

"I'm only teasing," Leliana replies. She arches an eyebrow. "What happened there?" 

"Mistake." Josephine takes the letter and folds it over, pinching the fold emphatically. The whole paragraph will be smudged now. No harm done. She had to start over anyway. No letter of hers would ever reach anyone with the word _cock_ in it. 

Her imagination hums. Perhaps she's wrong. She wonders what will happen when he returns to the field. Could she send a letter? A delightfully _naughty_ letter? What would he do then? Would he— 

"Never known you to destroy your mistakes so thoroughly," Leliana says. "I thought you detested wasting parchment." 

Josephine makes a face. "This was necessary, believe me." 

Leliana's eyes narrow. She leans her hip against the edge of Josephine's desk, arms folded. "There's something different about you." 

"I can't think of what. People change every day." 

Leliana's fingers tap against her arm. "No. There truly is something. I can't quite put my finger on it—" 

"Have you ever considered that your nosiness to be a personal flaw?" Josephine says. 

"Josie, my nosiness allows me to do fulfill my duty," Leliana replies. 

Josephine clears her throat. She stands, grabbing her writing board and a fresh sheaf of parchment. "We should go to the war room," she says. 

Josephine leads the way, walking swiftly down the corridor, Leliana a few steps behind. Leliana prattles on about how she _knows_ something has changed, that Josephine is different in a way. 

Josephine's fingers grip her writing board and ignores her. She reaches the end of the corridor and pushes the door open— 

Cullen and Ashara lean against the war table, Ashara's hands around his neck, Cullen's at her waist, locked in a passionate kiss. 

Josephine clears her throat. "If you wish to postpone this meeting, I can rearrange the time," she says. She's half serious. More than half serious. She very much does not want to have this meeting now. Her thoughts are everywhere but here. 

Ashara pulls away, disentangling herself from Cullen. "You're early," she says, smiling through her embarrassment. "I thought you would be a _little_ longer." She shoots a look at Cullen. 

He turns bright red. "Yes, well…" He coughs. "You see… Oh dear Maker, this is terribly unprofessional—" 

"It was a kiss between lovers," Josephine says. "What are you embarrassed about?" 

Cullen glances at Ashara. "I, uh… Did you tell them about us? That we're—" 

She makes a face. "I think they can put two and two together after they walked in on us." 

"Everyone knows," Josephine says. "The servants gossip, the agents gossip, your friends gossip. We've known for months." 

Cullen's expression turns to stone. "Jim! I knew it was him." 

Ashara folds her arms. "I told you he couldn't keep a secret—" 

"Oh!" Leliana's eyes go wide. She smirks impishly. "I know what's happened with you, Josie. It's so clear I can't believe I didn't see it before. Of course. Your rosy glow. How uncharacteristically distracted you are. How _embarrassed._ You had sex last night." 

Cullen's jaw drops. Ashara's eyebrows rise halfway up her face. 

Josephine drops her writing board.

"Well," she says, bending to pick it up, "you didn't quite have to put it _that_ way." 

Cullen chuckles, turning away, a blush on his cheeks. Ashara's grin is gleeful. 

"Oh, this is _delicious,"_ she says. She takes Josephine's hands in hers and pulls her towards the war table. "Josie, Josie, finally gracing herself with something other than work! Who is the lucky one? You must tell me everything—" 

Josephine drops her hands. "I'd rather not gossip about my love life, thank you." 

"But you'd gossip about mine?" Ashara says. "That's hardly fair."

 _"I'm_ not the one who gossiped, thank you!" Josephine exclaims. "The servants did. I did what I could to encourage them to stop. Your private life is your own." Her gaze rakes over Cullen, who still cannot meet her eyes. "Though I can't help it when you decide to make yours public." She stoops and picks up her writing board. A lock of loose hair falls across her face. She blows it away with a puff of hair. "This meeting is adjourned 'til tomorrow. Unless, of course, you'd like to have it without your notetaker. Which as your notetaker, I _do not_ recommend." 

She strides out the war room, face flushed, hair uncurling from her elaborate braid, her feet carrying her far away from the responsibilities of the day. 

 

* * *

 

She finds him in the rotunda, bent over a large tome. A magical artifact that could be either stone or bone (she isn't sure) lies glowing on the table. He looks up as she enters, eyebrows raised in surprise. 

"Lady Montilyet, I didn't expect—" 

"Messere Solas," she interrupts. "I need your assistance in a matter of great immediacy." 

He chuckles, straightening, putting his hands behind his back. "How can I be of help?" 

"I…" Josephine glances at the table, her eye drawn to the tome. Ancient letters are scrawled over it in a script she does not recognize. "What is this?" 

"An ancient Tevene text on the artifacts of my people," Solas explains. "A gift from Dorian, he went to great trouble to acquire it from a library in Minrathous for me. We have discovered multiple elvhen artifacts scattered throughout southern Thedas on our missions. My hope is to study their purpose, discover whether it can be of any use to us. My thought was to look to the humans who lived closer to the time of Ancient Arlathan, who plundered the treasures there. Perhaps they discovered something through means inaccessible to us in the present day." 

"And so far?" 

He shakes his head. "Nothing of use. Yet. I have hope." 

She glances at the glowing artifact, pulsing a cool blue light. "May I touch it? Or is it dangerous?" 

"Not at all," he says, smiling. "It is inert." 

Her hand hovers over it. 

"It won't hurt you, my lady," Solas says. His eyes meet hers. "I promise." 

Josephine picks up the artifact. It is cool and smooth to the touch. Its magic washes over her, tingling her skin. It is a pleasant feeling. She puts it down. "What was it used for?" 

"Magical enhancement," Solas replies. "It would have been part of a staff or scepter, installed in the core. A quicker way of channeling the Fade, creating more powerful spells." 

"Is that why it… ah…" 

His fingers brush the back of her hand. "Yes," he says quietly. "You can feel the remnants of its power. Pulsing, vibrating… No more than a memory, but a powerful one at that." He glances at her, his eyes lingering on hers. 

Josephine wets her lower lip and sets the artifact down. "I have a confession," she says, voice low. She closes the space between them, stepping between him and the table. Her hand grips the edge of the table behind her. "I have accomplished nothing today." 

He chuckles. "I, too, have a confession," he murmurs. "I have stood here for three hours and have read only one line of this text." 

"You're _translating,"_ Josephine says. "You have an excuse." 

"I admit, Lady Montilyet, it is rather difficult to translate when the only thought in your mind—" He leans in close, hand on her shoulder, and murmurs into her ear. "—is of the delightful sounds you make in bed." 

She breathes. Shallow. Trembling. "You, messere, have ruined my office. Every time I look at my couch, I can only think of… Well." She tilts her head. "You cannot _imagine_ what has crossed my mind today."

"I have a notion, but I would not speak on your behalf." His other hand brushes the small of her back. "I would tell you what crossed mine." 

Josephine shoots him a coy look. "I would much rather you show me." 

"Do you?" 

She arches an eyebrow. "We have determined that neither of us can work in this state, have we not?" 

"We have." 

"Then perhaps it would be an… acceptable use of our time." 

Solas pulls away. He raises her hand and kisses it. "Then by all means, my lady." 

Josephine blushes and pulls her hand free. Her mind whirls. "Meet me in the guest suites in half an hour," she says in a rush. "Third door, on the right." 

Solas nods. She smiles, radiant, and turns to leave. As she walks away, she feels Solas' gaze on her back. Her heart flutters in her throat. 

 

* * *

 

She's late. Unfathomably late. She told him half an hour and it has been at least ninety minutes since she left the rotunda. Having finally extracted herself from multiple impromptu engagements, she climbs the stairs, breathless, hair curling around her ears as it threatens to escape from her braid. 

Josephine reaches the mezzanine. Vivienne lounges elegantly on her settee, reading. She puts her book down. 

"Lady Montilyet—" 

"My apologies, Madame de Fer," Josephine says shortly. "I have an urgent matter to attend to. If you require my assistance, you can leave a note on my desk and I will answer it as soon as I can." 

Vivienne's expression softens. "Of course, darling," she says. "I have to intention to pull you away from your work. But do allow yourself to relax once in a while, yes? It is not good for the soul to work yourself to the bone." 

Josephine flushes. "Thank you," she says. "I'll take that to heart." 

"I do hope so," Vivienne replies. She shoots Josephine a knowing look and disappears behind her book. 

Josephine crosses the mezzanine and pushes through the door to the guest quarters beyond. The hallway is deserted, as she expected. There is currently only one delegate visiting the castle, a baron from Ostwick who has a fondness for gambling. Last she saw him, he was on his way to the Herald's Rest to bet against the Chargers. 

She remembers how much work went into renovating this hallway. It was among the last to be done, other areas in the castle taking precedence. But she was insistent that the Inquisition's guests have comfortable places to stay when visiting. Not only would they be poor hosts, but it would scar their reputation if they did not show a certain level of respectability. The Inquisition could only play the "hiding in the remote mountains" card for so long. 

Still, there is work to be done. The walls are bare, the stone weathered and cracked. A tapestry or two would go a long way. Torches, too—the hallway could use more light at night. The fourth and fifth rooms are in desperate need of better bedding. All things she will deal with someday. 

If she can ever find the time. 

Josephine sighs, slowing as she reaches the third door on the right. She wonders if he waited for her. She thinks he has. 

She hopes. 

She smooths down her dress, brushes loose hair behind her ears and opens the door. 

Solas waits, facing the window on the opposite side of the room. He stands straight and tall, hands clasped behind his back. 

Josephine gently shuts the door. "You're here," she breathes. 

He looks over his shoulder. "Of course." 

"I'm sorry for the delay," she says. "I was waylaid. First by Varric—for some reason he only entrusts his complaints about the freezing temperature in his quarters to me. I have told him many times, Skyhold is a castle in the mountains, it is drafty by nature, it _will_ be colder than Kirkwall." 

Josephine gestures as she speaks, pacing back and forth as her hands move in time to her words. "And then there was Baron Dalberg, who insists on drawing me into a game of Wicked Grace every time I see him. And then Gatsi! He consistently wants to share his thoughts on stonemasonry, though I know nothing of the trade. His contributions to the castle repairs are wonderful, but does he expect me to discuss them with him every time I greet him?" 

She sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, an ornate thing imported from Val Royeaux. Too grand for Ashara's taste and too much a hassle to return, Josephine had it moved to the guest suite. Her hand splays across the silken sheets, toying with them. "Mother once told me the most valuable thing I can learn is to say 'no,'" she continues. "No, I do not have time for this conversation. No, I cannot help you today. Why is it so difficult for me to say?" She shakes her head. "There were more interruptions than I anticipated. I should have planned more accordingly—" 

Solas shakes his head. "I have waited many years for many things," he says. "There is no need to apologize." He sits beside her, long legs stretching out in front of them. "If Varric does not have a complaint, he will invent something to complain about. And I expect you have done Baron Dalberg a favour by declining—you would leave him a pauper with the expert hand you play. And Gatsi merely seeks validation on his fine work—many are glad for a castle with a roof, but few thank the man responsible for fixing it." He rests a hand against her cheek. "For better or for worse, you are the one who listens. And so, they come to you." He brushes a curl behind her ear. 

Josephine folds her hands in her lap. "I do," she says. "I became a diplomat because I enjoy listening to others, their stories, their thoughts, their feelings. My world was once so small and insular and now… Now it is larger and more vibrant than I could possibly have imagined." 

"Knowledge is illuminating," he says. "I, too, have learned much since I ventured here. The world is much different than I thought." 

Josephine takes his hand, tracing his palm with her fingers. "What did you think it to be?" 

He pauses. His other hand caresses the back of her neck. His finger finds the pins in her hair and he slowly removes them, one by one. "I thought it cruel," he says quietly. "I thought it a barren wasteland, brimming with nothing but malice and rage and despair. Spirits such as those are drawn easily from the Fade. A telltale sign of a world in crisis." He releases her hair, fingers stroking through her braid, pulling it apart. He coils a finger around a lock, twirling it. The back of her neck tingles. "And while that is true, I was wrong in assuming it was the _only_ state of being. There is a good here, too. Hope and kindness and compassion. And love." 

"Are there spirits for those as well?" Josephine asks. 

He strokes her hair, savouring its length. "Indeed. What did you think Cole is?" 

Josephine blinks. "He's a boy." 

Solas raises an eyebrow. 

"…he's not a boy, is he?" 

"It is the form he has chosen to take, yes," Solas says. "But no, he is not strictly… human. He is a spirit of compassion. Did Vivienne not tell you this?" 

"No." 

Solas clicks his tongue with discontentment. "Cole's spirit nature is the true reason for her disapproval of him. She believes him to be a liability. Perhaps she did not tell you this because she did not want to worry you." 

"Spirits and demons are often only the concern of mages," Josephine says. "I'm not a mage." 

"Though you are fascinated by magic," Solas points out. 

Josephine chuckles. "I am, yes. Mother always said I have a healthy appetite for knowledge." She presses a hand to his chest. His homespun tunic is coarse to the touch, but it feels so very him. She had once thought to offer him new clothes, but she can’t imagine him in anything else.

His heart beats rapidly beneath her touch. "You must have led a very different life than most, Solas," she says. 

"That is… an apt description, yes." He brushes her cheek. 

"Where were you before all this?" she asks, gesturing about the room. 

He catches her hand and pulls it in. "Many long-forgotten places, where ancient magic dwells." He kisses her fingers, one by one. "The temples and landmarks of my people. I am a wanderer. I do not stay in one place for long." 

"You've stayed here." 

He kisses the back of her hand. "Yes. I have." 

"I'm glad," Josephine says. "The Inquisition would not be the same without you." 

He pulls her to him, pressing his lips to her collarbone. "The Inquisition or you, my lady?" 

She breathes softly, closing her eyes. "Both." 

"Though… I suppose in many ways, you _are_ the Inquisition," he adds, chuckling. 

She shakes her head. "You do me too much credit—" 

He kisses her, his mouth warm and gentle against hers. A soft kiss, a sweet kiss. Her hands clasp behind his neck; his are tangled in her hair. She lives suspended in the moment, a shiver running down her spine. 

"Solas…" she murmurs against his lips. 

He kisses her. 

"Solas," she repeats. 

He deepens the kiss. His breath is hot in her mouth. She utters a little moan, then pulls away. "Is this all right?" she asks. 

His brow furrows. "Why would it not be?" 

"If I had an ounce of courage, I would have invited you to my quarters," Josephine replies. "But that act would send a clear sign to every person in this castle. I'm afraid I am indulging in secrecy, and if it offends you—" 

He puts his hand to her face, his eyes meeting hers. "The thought never crossed my mind," he says. "And I would argue that it is not secrecy in which you are indulging—it is privacy. Something we both deserve."  

"Do you know what Leliana said to me earlier today?" Josephine says. _"'You had sex last night.'_ Those exact words, right out of her mouth!" 

"She is a spymaster," Solas says. "It is her responsibility to be in tune with those around her. I'm sure she sees many things others miss—" 

"Oh no, this is _specifically_ because she has known me for years," Josephine interrupts. "There is very little I can hide from her and she from me. Even when I want to." She sighs and presses her forehead against his. "This is new and something I never expected. I want to keep it to ourselves for some time. Is that wrong of me?" 

He kisses her. "Of course not." 

Solas wraps his arms around her, holding her in an embrace. His hands press into her back, seeking her warmth, searching for comfort. She melts into him, lips against his, kissing with abandon. She pushes him backwards onto the bed, falling with him. She lands on top of him and he rolls her over onto her side. She throws a leg over his, her skirts swirling about them. His hand slides down her back, cupping her rear. She chortles at his touch. 

"What?" he murmurs. 

"I believe you said thoughts of me were distracting you from your studies," Josephine says, eyes shining mischievously. "Why don't you show me what you meant?" 

He smirks. "I knew you had not forgotten." 

"Well, then?" 

* * *

That evening, Josephine works through her pile of reports, humming delicately to herself. Leliana appeared at dinner time, a knowing look on her face. "You were gone for hours," she said, to which Josephine laughed and said nothing in return. Leliana could decipher the truth from barely the smallest hint, she would not willingly give her friend any ammunition. 

For now, at least. 

She will share the truth. Eventually. 

A knock on her door. 

"Yes?" she calls. 

Ashara pokes her head through. "May I come in?" she asks. 

Josephine nods. 

Ashara slips into the office, shutting the door behind her. She is dressed casually, her Inquisition finery put away for the day. Her long auburn hair flows freely over her shoulder, save for a small braid along her part which keeps it out of her eyes. "I wanted to apologize," she says. "For teasing you earlier. That was unkind of me—" 

She stops midway across the office. She looks around, brow furrowed. "Something's different," she says. "Did you redecorate?" 

"No," Josephine says, finishing off a letter. She sets down her quill and sprinkles powder across the parchment, setting the ink. "I rearranged the furniture." 

She gestures to the hearth. In front of it are two chairs, arranged in perfect conversational distance from each other. 

"You moved the couch," Ashara says. 

"I did." 

Josephine smiles mysteriously and says no more on the matter. Her thoughts flicker to her quarters, where the very distracting couch with its very distracting memories now lives. Solas will laugh about it when he finds out, she thinks. 

Or at least she hopes he will. 

They are truly entangled now.


End file.
